Thief

by Linda Windsor

  “Conall is four and has Ronan’s looks and bold disposition. Though he has his mother’s eyes and won’t be parted from his wolfskin blanket.”

  Alyn didn’t have to highlight the irony. The wolf that had died by Caden’s hand, protecting Brenna, still protected her offspring. Or its fine white pelt did.

  “You should see the wee laddie tugging at it for all he’s worth with the half-wolf pup Daniel gave to Brenna. He’s O’Byrne stubborn.”

  Caden almost smiled at Alyn’s portrayal of the future laird of Glenarden holding onto his blanket as his father, Ronan, had held onto the fugitive Brenna and the prophecy of the division of the O’Byrne clan for the sake of peace. And that was just what young Conall would inherit as laird of the once-warring clans.

  No thanks to Caden. He reined in his memories, desperate to stop them. He was alive. Wallowing in the past only brought misery worse than that in his back. Yet there was a part of him that longed for his home.

  “Is the pup white like the wolf?” he asked.

  “As snow. Brenna said ’twas a gift from God. Daniel thinks her Faol was a bit of a gallivant about the hills.”

  “I thought young Gowrys was attending university with you, not in the high hills with his kin.”

  “He is, but Wales is not far enough away to keep us from visiting home … or to come here.”

  Here. Caden came back to the present, grounding himself with a glance about the strange room. “Exactly where is here,” he asked, “and how long have I been here?”

  “You are in Trebold Tavern,” Father Martin replied. “Arthur insisted you receive the best of care, so he sent for Brenna.”

  Trebold. Aye, the estate by the crossing of the burn where they last camped before meeting the renegade Sassenach who dared to cross the Tweed.

  “Seems someone saved the Pendragon’s life,” Alyn put in.

  Caden remembered. For Arthur’s sake and that of Albion, he was grateful to have helped the High King. But as for himself …

  “I should have died,” he said flatly. Had the struggle on the Other Side been a dream?

  “For the last fortnight, we thought you would,” Alyn replied grimly.

  A fortnight. Time aplenty for his younger brother to receive the news at Llantwit and come to his side … and for his elder brother to make it plain that Caden was dead to him. Not that Caden blamed Ronan.

  Father Martin interrupted Caden’s thoughts. “It seems God has other plans for you. And when you are on your feet again, so does the High King.”

  “Aye, after we get you home where you can—”

  Caden’s brow hiked. “Did Arthur forget he exiled me from my home?”

  Never again was Caden to set foot in Glenarden or Gododdin. That was why he’d fought with the Lothians, now under the command of Modred.

  “Our God is one of second chances,” the priest continued with annoying reassurance. “Who is His servant Arthur to be different?”

  Caden grunted. “Better you’d let me die.”

  Yet his heart was no longer behind his words, thank God. In truth, he was grateful to be alive, if his dream had been reality and death was not the end but the beginning of another life.

  Thank God? Was that a prayer? Before Caden could ponder the startling thought, a door opened, drawing his attention to the female entering the room with a tray of food.

  Her face, a handsome one despite the crinkle of lines bracketing her eyes and smile, lit up upon seeing Caden. “He’s awake, praise God!”

  With a regal bearing uncommon to a serving wench, she approached to place a wooden trencher laden with joints of roast fowl, cheese, and bread on the bedside table. Caden’s stomach rumbled in anticipation, though his mind wasn’t as certain. As he labored to decide what appealed to him, she broke off some of the soft inner part of the bread and dropped it into a cup of broth.

  “The broth is his, sirs, but the rest is yours. Unless you’d rather eat in the tavern below.” She sat on the edge of the bed next to Caden. “I’m Myrna of Trebold Law. Welcome back to This World, Caden of Glenarden.”

  Caden’s appetite withered as Alyn made for the meat like a starved pup, stopping only long enough to cross himself through a hasty prayer of thanksgiving. So she knew of his shame. The old priest, also giving thanks over the food, must have told her.

  “Come now, I’ve let it cool,” she cajoled, lifting a spoonful to his thinned lips. “You must regain your strength. A fortnight abed for a healthy man will leave him an invalid, but you have fought fever and death’s grasp like none I’ve seen.”

  Caden accepted the nourishment. To his surprise, it awakened the need for more. “It’s good. Thank you.” He winked. A habit when in the company of an attractive woman, though this one was near twice his age.

  “You are most welcome, sir, but don’t mistake my interest as anything but that of a Christian heart and a mother’s hope. For all the years I’ve seen, I could be your mother.”

  A maidservant’s sass with the eloquence and demeanor of a gentlewoman. “Then time has been kind to you, milady. Beauty demands nothing less than a man’s full attention, and yours shines both without and within.” If eyes were windows to the soul, Myrna’s green ones revealed wisdom, generosity, empathy, and something else … something his sister-in-law Brenna demonstrated in abundance.

  Faith.

  “Ever the silver-tongued devil, aren’t you, Brother?” Alyn mumbled, his mouth full of bread.

  Heat rushed to Caden’s face. “Never mind the twit, milady. ’Twas a heartfelt compliment with no ulterior motive … save more of that broth.”

  “Has God gifted all three of your O’Byrne brothers with charm, Father?” Myrna asked Martin.

  The priest looked up from a joint of fowl. “They have their moments.” He stiffened in dismay, putting down the bone. “Forgive me, Milady Myrna. The sight of such good food has robbed me of my manners.” Not willing to take full blame, he shot a reprimanding glance at Alyn, who hopped to attention.

  “Yes, right,” he said, wiping his hands on his tunic. “This isn’t just Myrna; she is the mistress of Trebold and this tavern.”

  Caden recalled an old nobleman, much older than this lady, who offered the hospitality of his keep, such as it was, to the Pendragon. “Lord Malachy is a lucky man.”

  This time color leapt to Myrna’s face. “Nay, sir, Malachy is my brother-in-law. When my husband, Fintan, died, Malachy left the church to help me with Trebold as best he could. But he’s more a priest than laird, I fear. Between us, we’ve managed the land to keep our people fed and pay what we can to King Modred in food rent. Our lot is meager, but enough.”

  Myrna brushed a lock of fading copper hair off her face as though she might again tuck away the pain grazing it. She helped Caden to more bread and broth before continuing. “Many of our people have fled to Wales or Cumbria with the Saxons savaging our borders. So many fields lay fallow, yet God provided us another boon. Our location at the ford is the perfect place for a hostel.”

  “And you don’t fear the Sassenach?” Caden asked.

  Myrna shrugged. “God will continue to provide. Whoever rules the land will take their tolls and need food and lodging, though I’d prefer to serve a Briton king,” she stipulated.

  “If you live to pay the tolls and run your hostel,” Caden pointed out. Knowing what Saxons did to helpless women, he couldn’t imagine Myrna wanting to live when they were done with her.

  “If not, then I shall see my Maker and have no worries at all.” She twirled the spoon in the broth, at peace with that possibility, judging by the wistful tilt of her lips.

  She wouldn’t think death so grand if she’d been as close as Caden had been to the Other Side.

  “And now God’s answered this lonely widow’s heart-held prayer by sending you.”

  Somewhere in the back of Caden’s throat, the wet bread lodged. The coughing it triggered drove lance after lance through his wound with each strangle of breath. His head grew light, a
lack of consciousness momentarily pulling him up out of his misery. When he came to himself again, he was surrounded by Alyn, Father Martin, and Lady Myrna, who looked on the verge of tears.

  “I apologize, milord, if I’ve upset you,” she fretted. “’Twas too soon to heap another burden on you.”

  “She doesn’t want you for a husband, twit.” Concern overrode Alyn’s stab at levity.

  “What then?” Caden managed. Had they left the cursed lance in his back? With every movement his wound felt as though it were still there, being twisted by a vicious hand.

  “God sent you to me to find my lost daughter.” Myrna fluffed the pillow behind his head. “But for now, you need to rest and regain your strength for your mission. Will you take more broth?”

  Caden shook his head. He wanted to know more about this mission. Unfortunately, he was too weary to form the questions in his mind, much less voice them. He closed his eyes like a babe, and the world around him drifted away.

  Chapter Two

  Across the fells and moorlands to the east of Lothian, the salt scent of the German Sea and the rush of waves upon the Bernician shore were blotted out by the cluster of humanity and goods of Din Guardi’s marketplace. Exotic fabrics and spices from the East, tableware from the Mediterranean, the finest wines and oils the continent had to offer—all were on display to tease and tempt the buyer.

  Yet where Sorcha, adopted daughter of the late merchant Wulfram, stood, the pungent stench of the slave warehouse surrounded her. A line of British captives, shackled in irons and despair, left the raised dais one by one, sold to work in some thane’s hall, barn, or fields. They were able men, not of warrior stature—for those would have died fighting their Saxon captor—but still fit for common labor.

  Then came the women, the more comely ones examined with looks and touches that made Sorcha shudder. Her betrothed, despite being twice her age, sometimes looked at her with the same raw hunger.

  As her adopted father’s best friend, Cynric of Elford had watched Sorcha grow up. She’d seen him as a fatherly figure, but now she was a woman, and he was, for all his kindness and generosity, a man. For a year she’d kept him at bay, asking time to mourn her parents, who perished in a fire that had consumed their home and tavern near their business at a port warehouse.

  The image of Wulfram and Aelwyn’s smiling faces squeezed at Sorcha’s heart. But for a twist in the Wyrds’ way, Sorcha might have perished as well. Instead, she and her mother’s friend and servant, Gemma, managed to leap from their loft bedchamber to the roof of an adjacent building. Her parents were not so fortunate.

  With their home in ashes, Sorcha and Gemma moved to Wulfram’s warehouse near the waterfront and, with what assets had not perished in the fire, finished part of it as their new home. Living among the swarms of strangers and seamen who came into the port below Din Guardi’s great rock wasn’t the safest place for two women to live alone, but then, Sorcha and Gemma were well acquainted with the use of a sword or knife. Not that they’d had to use either. Those who lived and worked in that section looked out for their own….

  “Each lot is more sorrowful than the last,” Gemma said, pulling Sorcha from the horror of that night. Though she stood on an empty wine cask, the dwarf strained on tiptoe to see over the heads of the crowd.

  “Aye,” Sorcha agreed. Some would marry and be lifted above their lot as a slave, but ’twas still an indignity to a free soul.

  “Better them than me,” Gemma observed. She was not without heart but was pragmatic to a fault.

  Gemma had been born on the same day as Sorcha’s adopted mother, both to a troupe of gleemen or entertainers. Copper-haired Aelwyn grew into a tall, lithe beauty, while her brown-haired counterpart’s growth was stunted by the whim of the Wyrds. Aelwyn’s voice and sharp wit earned her a living as a singer to the common folk, while Gemma’s unique size, sleight of hand, and light fingers filled the needs song did not.

  A wail, followed by a harsh command for silence, drew Sorcha’s attention to where a barrel-chested oaf tugged a string of dirty and disheveled children, some in rags, toward the platform.

  “Here come the little ones.”

  Even as Sorcha mouthed the words, she was seized with empathy for the frightened children led like livestock across the slaver’s dais. For just a second, she was one of them again, snatched from a loving home by barbarian invaders, monsters with swords who trussed her up and marched her over hill and dale into a foreign land with a language that sounded harsh to ears accustomed to the lilt and flow of her native tongue.

  Though only seven when she was taken from Trebold Law, she’d heard stories about the Sassenach barbarians. Would the brigands kill her and eat her? she’d wondered, trembling. Would they sacrifice her to their heathen gods? Where were her parents? Why hadn’t they come after her? Or would they never come? Was the blood staining the clothing and blades of her straw-haired captors that of her loved ones?

  With each day that passed in the new land, her mother’s last words, a promise called out to Sorcha as she was dragged away from her homeland—that God would bring her home again—turned a child’s hope into contempt. If her parents’ Christian God was so good, was even real, this would not have happened.

  Sorcha shook off the flashback. “I count four.”

  At least she’d been one of the lucky ones. Wulfram and Aelwyn had purchased her and adopted her as the daughter of their hearts. Aelwyn had been barren, and Sorcha might have been her own, given her mane of fiery red hair. But where Aelwyn’s eyes were summer blue, Sorcha’s were a winter green—the soft color of pine needles, so Wulfram often teased, or a gemstone fire when she was angry.

  “Three,” Gemma disagreed with a stubbornness twice her size. “We can only afford three.”

  Scorcha knew her friend was right. Having spent what little coin they had after her parents’ deaths on building a room in the warehouse for a home, they’d had to borrow from the moneylender to purchase the spring supplies this year. And the betrothal gift that Cynric had given her had gone toward previous auctions. If she asked for more, the thane might think her dowry—the business—was not worthy of marriage.

  “The littlest one won’t remember. A child-starved mother will give her all her own mother would, same as Aelwyn did you,” Gemma reminded her.

  Sorcha couldn’t deny that Aelwyn and Wulfram loved her with all their hearts. But that didn’t erase the memory of Sorcha’s birth mother. Myrna’s loving face was forever etched on Sorcha’s heart.

  “So, Sorcha, I see you’ve come for more children to while away.”

  Talorc, the Frisian slave trader whose goods were on the auction block, ambled over to Sorcha. Giving Gemma a less than dismissive glance, he set himself between the two of them for Sorcha’s undivided attention.

  Gemma jumped down from the cask before she was knocked over. “Watch yourself, trader, or you might awaken tomorrow as the swine you are.”

  “Ach, you’ve no more magic than me.” The Frisian scoffed at the threat as Gemma gave his tunic a hard tug of indignation. “Careful, little woman, or I’ll sell you!”

  With a sniff, Gemma hustled to Sorcha’s other side, but something told Sorcha it was not because of fear. Gemma was too quick for all that excess flesh and bone to catch her.

  “Talorc, I am a person of business like my father before me,” Sorcha said. “These children will fetch me a profit as well as you.” Sorcha’s smile was as empty as her growling stomach. In their haste to make it to the market in time for the auction, she and Gemma had failed to break the fast.

  “Exactly what is it you do with the urchins?” the man asked, fingering his necklace of gold coins and buttons, a financial reserve, as well as a boastful sign of his wealth. “I hear you keep them about from time to time, and then they are gone. Does she turn them into toads?”

  “You said you don’t believe in the magic of little people,” Sorcha replied.

  Although a good many did, something Gemma used to her a
dvantage when it suited her purpose.

  Talorc peered around Sorcha. “No, but I do believe someone would pay dearly to have her as a pet.”

  Sorcha sank her fingers into Gemma’s shoulders in time to stay her friend’s impulse to respond, although she could well imagine what was going on in Gemma’s quick mind. Something about a knife and rendering Talorc so he would never sire children.

  “Gemma is a free woman,” Sorcha reminded him sweetly.

  The sad thing, though, was that what Talorc said was true. The wealthy had kept dwarves as pets since the pharaohs, although most were pampered to the utmost in exchange for their unique presence and entertainment. Sorcha had even heard it said that parents tried to arrest their babes’ normal growth with diet and potions, both within the womb and without, to produce the same result.

  “As for my business,” Sorcha continued, “I and my network of associates find child-starved homes for them inland where they’ll be raised as natural-born sons and daughters, not slaves.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie. Gleemen and bards, or scops as they were called in Bernicia, were welcome anywhere in the isles no matter their nationality, as long as they might sing their stories in multiple languages or simply entertain with their theatrics or acrobatic abilities. A few in Sorcha’s close circle had heart enough to help her return these children to their rightful homes. Any rewards were shared, with her portion used to save future captives. Sadly, gratitude was all most broken families could afford.

  “The reward must not be much, else you’d rebuild your home.” Talorc laughed at her sentimentality, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes.

  It seemed to amuse her betrothed as well, but Sorcha had been adamant that she’d remain free to help those whose position she’d once been in. Or maybe it was her way of dealing with her grief this past year. A distraction to fill the emptiness of her loss.

  “Milady’s business is none of yours, Talorc,” Gemma reminded him. “Now leave us be so we can attend to it.” The dwarf motioned Talorc along, like a queen dismissing a minion.